Death of the Dream
by Wilusa
Summary: After Connor's defeat of the Kurgan, a stranger makes him face a hard truth. Part of my main universe.


DISCLAIMER: _Highlander _and its canon characters are the property of Davis/Panzer Productions; no copyright infringement is intended.

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_**The Highlands of Scotland, 1987.**_

"Think we made a start on that baby last night?"

Connor MacLeod grinned at the question. It was becoming a morning ritual, but the baby project hadn't been underway long enough for either of them to be worried. Without opening his eyes, he murmured his stock reply: "Maybe we should try again now, to be on the safe side."

Brenda Wyatt MacLeod gave a rich laugh, and he felt and heard her roll over in their big feather bed. A moment later she was straddling him. "Yep, you really can read minds!"

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After a joyous bout of lovemaking, they shared a shower that was hot in more ways than one. Connor found his mind drifting back to an era when Highland cottages had no running water, let alone the modern conveniences of this rental. For a moment, he imagined his adored Heather in his arms. But then he offered a prayer for her - and another prayer, of gratitude, for the new chance he'd been given.

He knew the wife of his youth would be happy for him. And Brenda, with a wisdom beyond her years, never made him feel guilty about honoring her memory. It was she who'd suggested they name their first daughter Heather.

They finished their shower and dressed. Newlyweds that they were, they made a game of it, each of them dressing the other - with occasional lustful suggestions that they halt the process and _un_dress again. But they eventually did make it to the breakfast table.

He was pouring his third cup of coffee when everything changed.

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"What's the matter?" Brenda didn't seem concerned; she evidently thought he'd heard some unusual sound that she'd missed.

He set the pot down carefully. "I...I don't know."

_This can't be happening._

"Connor? What's wrong?" She spoke sharply now, alarmed by what she read in his face.

"I feel...what I used to feel when...when an Immortal was nearby." He swallowed hard. "When..._another_ Immortal was nearby."

_But I'm not one now! There are no more Immortals!_

"Oh, my God, Connor," she whispered.

"Don't worry. It's nothing," he assured her. "It must be like the phantom pain people are said to have after they've lost a limb. I'm not Immortal. And there's no one else out there. There can't be."

But the sensation wasn't going away.

He walked to the window and peered out, instinctively taking care not to show himself.

A slim, youthful man was standing motionless in the dirt road. His hands were visible and clearly empty, his clothing too flimsy to conceal a sword. His vehicle, if he had one, was out of sight.

"There is someone, isn't there?" Brenda asked in a tight voice.

"Y-yes. He doesn't look threatening. Looks pretty young, in fact."

"I thought, with Immortals, that didn't prove anything." She was making an admirable effort to stay calm.

"Normally it doesn't." He moistened his lips. "_Didn't._ But I think I know what's happened here. When I killed the Kurgan, I was the only surviving Immortal. I won the Prize...and I became mortal. That was the Prize I would have chosen, if I had a choice.

"But this young fellow was a _pre_-Immortal. Maybe the last pre-Immortal. He just recently had his first death, in an accident or something. And his becoming Immortal made me Immortal again. The whole damn thing could be starting over."

"But how could he have found you?" Her voice rose. "Why would he even be looking for you?"

He shrugged. "Maybe, if we're the only two that exist, he was somehow drawn to me. Just as the last few were drawn to New York for the Gathering."

He looked toward the bed. But what he was really seeing was the suitcase under it. And inside the suitcase, something he'd kept only as a cherished memento.

His dragon-head katana.

Brenda's eyes followed his. "Connor! You wouldn't! An innocent, unarmed new Immortal -"

"No." He took a deep breath, and fought down the temptation. "No, I can't. Killing him might be the easiest way out of this, but I'd never be able to live with myself." He managed a chuckle. "Or with you."

She came to put her arms around him, and rested her head on his shoulder. He buried his face in her still-damp auburn curls.

At last she whispered, "What _are_ you going to do?"

"The only thing I can," he said with a sigh. "Tell him what he is, what I am, all of it. And...offer to teach him to use a sword."

Her head shot up at that. "To kill _you?_"

"I hope not." Despite the unpleasant prospect of taking on another student, he found himself grinning. "I won't teach him _all_ I know."

But a moment later he was serious again. "If there was one pre-Immortal, there could be more. I may wind up teaching a half-dozen of them, getting attached to every one - and living to see them cut each other down.

"And this isn't the life I wanted to give you! We won't have those babies -"

"It's okay." Tears glistened in her eyes, but her voice was firm. "All that matters is that we're together. I'm with you for the long haul, just like Heather was."

He held her close, hugged her desperately. They shared a lingering kiss.

Then he strode out, weaponless, to face the unknown.

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"I'm unarmed, MacLeod." The stranger raised his hands above his head. "I come as a friend."

"You know me?" Connor was confused, not so much by the man's knowing his name as by his also knowing the situation could be dangerous.

"I know _of_ you, yes." The hands came down slowly, but remained in view. "I think I can guess what's been going through your mind. That I'm a brand-new Immortal."

"You must be!"

"No." The British-accented voice was kindly, a trifle sad. "I've been around longer than you have. A lot longer."

"The Gathering has already taken place! I defeated the Kurgan, became the One..."

The strange Immortal shook his head. "You've been deluding yourself, MacLeod. I don't doubt that the Kurgan thought you and he were the last two. And there may have been a few others caught up in this weird little Gathering scenario.

"But you were wrong. I don't mean that there are a few more Immortals left, or even a few hundred. No one knows how many there are, but we number at least in the thousands. For all I know, there could be millions. Getting killed right and left, of course, but with new ones coming along every day.

"I've never believed in the Gathering. But if it really is destined to happen, it's centuries down the road."

"You're lying," Connor said flatly. "You and I must be the last two. And you're trying to rattle me. Pose as a friend, so you can catch me off guard and take my head."

"Do you think I could be hiding a sword in these jeans? I walked here from the village, just so you wouldn't imagine I had one in my car. Well, I do, of course, but it's not doing me any good now. I don't think your head's the one in danger."

Connor found himself wavering. _Could he possibly be telling the truth?_

"If you're on the level," he said slowly, "why did you come here? And if I'm not the last Immortal or anywhere near it, how did you know I thought I was?" As an afterthought, he added, "Who are you, anyway?"

The stranger chuckled. "Good questions. I'll take the last one first. I've used many names, just as you have. But you can call me Ben. Benjamin Adams.

"And don't you think it would be a good idea to go in the house? Either that or have your wife come out here. She must be tearing her hair out by now."

Feeling slightly foolish, Connor said, "You're right. Come in."

But he resolved to watch the man like a hawk.

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Five minutes later they were settled at the table, and fresh coffee was brewing. That was for Connor and Brenda. Despite the early hour, Adams had expressed a preference for beer.

"As to why I'm here," he said regretfully, "I hated to burst your bubble. But I didn't want you to learn the truth the hard way - when someone came for your head, and you'd stashed your sword in the attic."

Brenda, who was in some ways handling the shock better than Connor, murmured a heartfelt "Thank you."

"I still can't understand it," Connor fretted. "I know you're telling the truth. But I hadn't sensed any Immortals - beyond the ones I thought were the final few - in a long, long time. And I was living in New York, for God's sake."

Adams rolled his eyes. "Have you ever heard of the flight to the suburbs?" Warming to his topic, he continued, "Let me guess. Your antique shop was in an old section of town, so old the street was still cobbled. Am I right? And you lived over the shop, in classic European style. Hardly ever went anywhere. Right?"

"Y-yes," Connor admitted sheepishly.

"That explains it. If you'd been riding the subways or driving on the Long Island Expressway, another Immortal would have given you the finger - if not a challenge - just about every day."

While Brenda was pouring coffee, Adams went on to say more seriously, "You do have quite a reputation as a swordsman. Some of them may have given you a wide berth because they didn't want to tangle with you."

"I suppose you're right," Connor conceded. "But I felt different after I killed the Kurgan! I was mortal, I was sure of it..."

_That was something I __**wanted**__. _

_And I never did make the simple test of cutting myself, to see how rapidly I'd heal._

He shook his head in bemusement. But then he persisted, "I had gained the power to read minds..."

When he saw Adams' face, he realized how stupid that sounded. He hadn't been able to read _Adams'_ mind - and still couldn't.

Instead of pointing that out, his new acquaintance said kindly, "We all have empathic abilities, to some degree. Didn't your teacher explain that?"

"Y-yes." He recalled the thrill of learning to feel, to _be_, that stag. Why had he never tried to develop the ability in later years? He'd let himself be distracted by too many mundane things.

Adams continued gently, "When you thought the Game was over and you were finally free, you were able to relax and let yourself feel things you normally couldn't. You'd always had the power - but you had pressure as well. We all do. I envy you having been able to imagine, even briefly, that it was gone.

"There was another factor at work, too. The Kurgan must have taken thousands of Quickenings over the years, and they'd all been passed on to you at once. A _heady_ experience."

Even as Connor and Brenda smiled at the pun, Adams frowned. "But here's what _I_ can't understand. When you thought you'd become the last Immortal, did you simply forget your kinsman Duncan? Your first student?"

"Forget Duncan?" Connor was appalled. "Never! We were planning to name our first son for him -" He broke off as a wild hope formed in his mind. "B-but Duncan's dead. Isn't he?"

"Of course not. Where did you hear that?"

Now Connor was shaking like a leaf. _If Duncan's alive, it's all worth it. Worth not having children, not growing old with Brenda. Worth having the Game go on forever._

But could he trust this Benjamin Adams? An Enemy had stalked him through the centuries, murdering people he cared for - beginning, fortunately, after Heather had died of old age. He'd believed for years that his foe was the Kurgan. But the man had never admitted it, and Connor had never been able to come up with a motive. If Immortals still existed, that Enemy might still live...might be _Adams_. Building up his hopes, just to let him down hard.

Adams was waiting for an answer. So he said, "H-he disappeared from Montreal three years ago. I thought the Kurgan had killed him."

"Duncan MacLeod didn't disappear. He and the woman he's living with just relocated. Moved out west - to Seacouver."

Could that be true? Connor hadn't kept in close touch with Duncan after learning he'd set up housekeeping with a mortal. Immortals always backed off in those circumstances. It was one thing for a woman to know the truth about her lover, quite another to adjust to a stream of centuries-old friends with whom she had nothing in common.

_But if I'm honest with myself, I have to admit more was involved. I've always tried to keep Duncan at arm's length, so that mystery Enemy wouldn't realize how much he meant to me._

_And it wasn't hard to do. Duncan wanted to keep his distance from me, too, because I reminded him of the shameful secret in his past. What he did to Kate Devaney._

"We weren't as close as we could have been," he said slowly. "But even so, I'm sure he wouldn't have moved to Seacouver without letting me know."

"Without trying to let you know," Adams corrected. "Suppose he phoned a couple times, and couldn't catch you in. He would have written, right? He is an antique shop operator, same as you. Maybe a clerk in your shop saw a note from him, and thought it was just one antique dealer routinely notifying another of a relocation. Filed it with business correspondence - and you never saw it."

"Of course," Connor breathed. "Rachel!"

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Not just a clerk, Rachel Ellenstein had been his assistant manager - and in every sense that mattered, his daughter.

At least, that was how he'd perceived their relationship. He was keen enough to know that as an adult, Rachel had fallen in love with him. But that could never be: for him, if not for her, it would have been incest.

It was partly - but only partly - because of that painful situation that he'd decided the time had come for "Russell Nash" to drop out of sight. Now the New York antique shop was Rachel's.

Rachel had always known his original name was Connor MacLeod. But he'd never used it during their years together; she thought of him as Russell Nash. On top of that, she knew the origin of Immortals was shrouded in mystery, and no two could be sure they were related by blood. He'd deliberately kept her and Duncan unaware of each other's existence, to shield both of them from the Enemy.

So the name "Duncan MacLeod" in a communication from another antique dealer wouldn't have rung any bells. A wave of relief washed over him as, all at once, he knew Adams' suggestion was the truth.

But an instant later, he remembered that the Enemy might also be alive. "Damn! I know you're right, and I'll get in touch with Duncan. But I'll also have to let Rachel know I'm still Immortal, and there are others out there."

Brenda said, "Do you have any reason to think she'll be in danger?" At the same time, Adams was asking, "Who's Rachel?"

Connor's gut instinct - or another surge of empathic knowledge - told him Adams was not the Enemy. But a long habit of secretiveness impelled him to keep that particular problem to himself.

So he explained to Adams, "Rachel Ellenstein was a war orphan in the Forties, a mortal. I rescued her over in the Netherlands, and raised her as my own." Looking deep into his heart, he said softly, "I love her, in a different way, as much as I do Brenda and Duncan. The three of them make my life worth living.

"Rachel was assistant manager of the antique shop - it's hers now - and yes, she could have misfiled a message from Duncan."

Before Adams could question that, he rushed on. "I don't think it's likely she'll be in any danger. Not after my running into so few Immortals in recent years. But if there's a _chance _some loony with a sword will come looking for me, she should be aware of it."

He knew even Brenda would think it strange that Rachel hadn't known about Duncan. So he tried to change the subject by offering Adams another beer and inviting him to stay for lunch, if not longer. The other Immortal's spending that much time with them could lead to more awkward questions. But considering what he owed the man, he had no choice.

Adams surprised him. He stretched his lanky frame and said, "Actually, I should get back to the village. I'm not comfortable away from my better half." Then, with a smile for Brenda, he explained. "No, not a woman. My sword."

Connor made a decision. "I can't let you walk all the way back there, unarmed. We'll drive you - as soon as I've made a quick call to Rachel."

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Fifteen minutes later the two men were in Connor's small car, bumping along a hilly country road whose best feature was its quaintness. Brenda had opted not to come. She'd whispered to Connor that she wanted their guest to feel free to sit in front with him. But he wondered, sadly, if she'd really imagined they had some kind of "Immortal business" to discuss - or if she'd craved privacy to have a good cry.

Conversation was spotty. Connor pretended he had to give full attention to his driving; to his relief, Adams seemed to accept that. In reality, he still feared being quizzed about his failure to mention Duncan to a grown woman he viewed as a daughter.

But when they reached the village, and he was about to drop his passenger off at its dumpy little inn, he was struck by a realization. "Wait a minute! You never told me how you knew about me. Knew that I thought I'd won the Prize, or even that I existed."

The expression on Adams' face told him that had been no oversight.

_Damn. The whole time I was hoping he'd forget to pursue something, he was hoping __**I**__ would._

Adams recovered quickly. "It was easy to see you thought you'd won the Prize," he said with a faint smile. "Your whole life changed. It wasn't just that you dropped the Russell Nash identity and eloped with Brenda Wyatt. You began dressing differently, wearing clothes that couldn't conceal a sword. You altered your daily routine - stopped setting aside time to work out. And you seemed more relaxed than any of us can ever be. No one observing you could have missed it."

"But why _was_ anyone 'observing' me?" Connor exploded.

Unlikely as it seemed, he was sure Adams glanced down for a moment at the inside of his left wrist. Where, as Connor had already noticed, his sleeve only partly concealed an odd-looking tattoo.

Then he seemed to reach a decision. He looked up and said smoothly, "I've been keeping an eye on you for some time - for Duncan's sake. I have a special interest in him."

Connor felt a faint stirring of alarm. _Was I wrong about Adams? Is the sword in his car Duncan's katana, taken from his dead body?_

Aloud, he said uneasily, "That's right, you never told me how you met Duncan. Does he know you as Benjamin Adams, or by some other alias?"

"Actually, he doesn't know me at all." The enigmatic smile was in place again. "I'm sure he doesn't remember our meeting."

"Our kind have very good memories," Connor said stiffly.

"Not that good," Adams replied with a chuckle. "I happened to be in the Highlands toward the close of the sixteenth century. I was a doctor at the time. And I saw that student of yours when he was an infant. Actually _held_ him."

Connor gasped. "An infant? And you knew he was a pre-Immortal?"

"Oh, yes. By far the youngest I've ever seen or sensed." Adams turned his head away, but for a moment, Connor could have sworn his eyes were misty.

"A beautiful baby," he continued. "I could never put that memory out of my mind. Hated to think of any harm befalling him. I've never interfered in his life, but I have snooped from time to time. Just to make sure he was still thriving."

"And he is?"

"Yes. I think he's the happiest he's ever been, with this Tessa Noel. And he'll be still happier when he hears from you."

"He will, soon," Connor promised. "Thank you...for everything you've told me. The good news far outweighs the bad."

"Glad you feel that way." Adams was smiling again as he clasped Connor's outstretched hand.

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Halfway home, Connor slammed on the brake.

_He said he saw Duncan as an infant. Held him. And he himself was a doctor..._

_My God. Could he have __**delivered**__ Duncan?_

_Ramirez told me no one knows the origin of any Immortal..._

_**Could Adams **__**know...?**_

He made a U-turn and sped back to the inn.

But Benjamin Adams had already checked out, and Connor never saw him again.

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The End

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_Author's Afterword:_ This story is intended as a bridge between the first _Highlander_ film and the series, but it also has another purpose: to explain the acquaintance with and knowledge of Connor that Methos reveals in _Highlander: Endgame_.


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